I was with a dear old friend, watching David Bowie perform in a large indoor venue. At a certain point he walked offstage and wandered through the crowd, smiling and greeting fans. I believe he was performing “Moonage Daydream” at the time, and taking breaks between verses to interact with us. Suddenly he was in front of me, almost as if he’d sought me out. We had a brief conversation. I noted that he looked good for his age, better than me, and I was younger by the way. I was embarrassed by the mundanity of my remarks and struggled to think of something better, something clever. I wanted to clasp his hand but he held me by the wrist, a gesture both of intimacy and rebuke. After he wandered off I turned to my friend and noted that Bowie, quite androgynous at this stage, resembled my aunt. They shared a similar gaunt, bony face, and thin lips. And something in their personalities too—but only in the dream. Bowie continued performing and meandering through the crowd. At the end, as we exited, my friend pointed out that Bowie had sung “Ashes to Ashes” after interacting with me and I was puzzled and dismayed that I hadn’t even noticed. In fact I could hardly remember anything he’d played. What was wrong with me?

Bowie was outside too, performing to a small group on a concrete plaza. Again I was near him, and he addressed me from time to time. He lay on large, ornate cushions of Middle Eastern or Arabian design. He twisted and gyrated, posing for us, singing some and talking some. We were all in awe that such a star would share his space like this, would make himself available to us. I wanted a picture of him up close to prove this really happened, something I could show people. But I sensed he would object. Finally I raised my phone and tried to press the button. Nothing seemed to happen. Bowie looked at me unhappily. Disappointedly. I shook my head and told him no, no, I didn’t do it! I didn’t take your picture, I swear!